


A Solitude of Space

by WhimperSoldier



Category: Leverage
Genre: Multi, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: Elliott was used to waking up in strange places, strange bedrooms, operating theaters, a few hospitals, and once a Russian prison cell.So the waking up part was expected, but the two pacing people intermittently staring down at him were unfamiliar and worried looking, a nice change from the horrified expressions people usually had when he woke up.





	A Solitude of Space

**Author's Note:**

> I'm horrified I have not been writing more for these three because they DESERVE IT. 
> 
> The title is pretentiously taken from an Emily Dickinson poem.

Elliott was used to waking up in strange places, strange bedrooms, operating theaters, a few hospitals, and once a Russian prison cell.

So the waking up part was expected, but the two pacing people intermittently staring down at him were unfamiliar and worried looking, a nice change from the horrified expressions people usually had when he woke up.

He slowed his breathing, taking long breaths in from his mouth to slow his pounding heart and the surge of adrenaline. One woman, one man, three visible exits, one window, two doors. The window looked to exit onto a rusted fire escape and one of the doors had a bra tossed over the handle indicating a closet. Third door was his best option.

"Thank fuck, Elliott!" The man, broad and dark skinned with an attractively strong jaw and thick corded arms, must have noticed his cracked eyelid. "I knew it was a concussion, but no, _I know best Hardison I can sleep just fine_, sure man."

"You can't sleep through a concussion?" The woman asked with a raised eyebrow. She was perched on the end of the bed and was wearing a large dress shirt that looked too long to belong to him. The man, Hardison, just shot her a look and she cracked a smile. It was only when she glanced to him and he couldn't muster a fake smile quick enough did she still.

In his head he had prioritized taking down the man first, he was larger and moved like someone who had a nice layer of muscle, but the way she tightened her body like a spooked jungle cat had him preparing to roll from the bed and go for the closest weapon he could find.

"Elliot?" Hardison asked and when he reached for Elliot's shoulder the woman threw herself forward and pulled the man bodily to the floor, yanking him out of the way from Elliott's tackle. "What the fuck, man!"

The woman rolled up with a fluid grace. Even without pants, Elliot was hyper focused on her eyes, seeing where her eye line was. They may be more familiar with the location, but if he could reach a weapon before they did, he would have a good chance of getting out of this without a scratch--

"Elliot, baby, what's wrong?" The man had crawled to his feet and it was only the rigid length of the woman that blocked him from reaching out. It was the outstretched hand and the gesture the man was making to the shiny ring on his finger that distracted him enough that he tore his eyes for a moment from the woman. She started to race forward, to fight or defend her lover, he didn't know, only that she had a matching wedding band on her hand and fire in her eyes. Whip fast, Hardison reached out and lifted her bodily off the ground. Her bright eyes followed his every twitch. "Elliott, look at your hand, babe."

He refused to look away, instead imagining the many ways the women could slip from the man's grip and attack him.

"Parker promises not to jump you, promise." Hardison smiles softly, like Elliott was a particularly cute puppy he saw.

A single glance down and his fear was confirmed.

These psychos wanted to marry him.

"Look, I don't know who you people are--" that got him a punched out sound from Hardison and a pinched look from the woman, Parker. "But if you let me out of here now, we can all walk away, but if you won't then--"

"--then you won't be walking at all?" Parker finished snidely. "That's your favorite warning. Be a little more creative."

She was so spitting mad Elliott was surprised she didn't have steam coming from her ears. With a huff and a deep inhale, she sent one last glare his way then ran from the room. Hardison watched her go with a torn downturn to his lips.

"Look man, something's got scrambled last job, so why don't you do some digging up here and when you feel up to it, make your way downstairs and we can help walk you through it." Hardison gave him a soft smile and then, to Elliott's shock, turned his back on him and made to leave. At the door he spun on his heels with a contemplating frown. "Also, don't try to scale the fire escape. Parker rigged it to fall for anyone but her."

With that, he left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Elliott was rattled and wrong-footed. This strange attempt at a life he had thought dead and buried in the Afghan sand. Moving on instinct, he checked the metal railings and found them unconnected to the building. The man was telling the truth. He glanced back worriedly at the room.

Whoever these people were, they were either experts in his personality or knew him better than he knew himself. 

The room they were in was made up of a California King wrapped in crisp white sheets. A picture of the three of them, battered and bloody but smiling at the camera, the woman holding a lighter and a cheeky smile.

The closet was full of clothes so different Elliott knew this was no bait house. Graphic tees were next to what had to be his flannel and between all that was half a dozen sets of repelling gear.

Two desks were shoved against the far wall and between them, a mounted flat screen. One was full of scattered parts of a robot, like motors hanging out of 3-D printed shells. The other was sparse but had a few trophies on it.

With shaking hands, he lifted one and felt his heart stutter in his chest when his name was printed in neat letters under the _Chile Master Chef. _

The hallway was more of a funhouse of horrors. Picture after picture of them, sometimes just two, often time all three of them. Japan, London, Brazil, Turkey, they had been everywhere.

It was only when he spotted a familiar face did he realize this had to be the truth, that something was wrong with him because while he could believe someone was fucked up enough to kill him in some roundabout way like this, he never expected his parents to be involved.

But there his father was, oxygen tank parked next to the blonde woman, both smiling and pointing to Elliott grilling in the background.

Like the floor had fallen out from under him, he noticed the next frame was just a newspaper clipping from the New York Times about a rash of crimes against rich billionaires. He could care less about them, it was the date that had him stumbling like he hadn't since basic training.

Eight years. He was missing eight years.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up with prompts or just chat on tumblr @ whimper-soldier


End file.
